It’s hard to imagine how much Hong Kong has changed since

my grandmother first laid eyes on the city that rose above

Victoria Harbour in 1925. She was a wide-eyed seven year old

perched on her father’s knee as they bobbed into the choppy

harbour waters on the little Guangzhou ferry. Leung was moving

his family to the city.

My mother had always been keen that I visit the place where she

grew up; it held a special place in her heart. She somehow hadn’t

realised that it would be different though, and when she came to

visit me there she was taken aback by the way the city had evolved.

The first thing she said – astonishing herself – was, ‘I feel more

British than Chinese.’

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a lawyer, I found the city as exciting as it was overwhelming,

a real assault on my senses. For my first few weeks there

I was joined by Lily, my mother and father, brother and sisters,

and we explored the city together. It was furiously busy, teeming

with people going about their business at a frenetic pace against a

backdrop of both the beautiful old colonial buildings and the

modern high-rises, jam-packed with life. Pause for a moment on a

street corner to try and take in the sights and smells, and you’d

cause a pile up; the flow of humanity was unstoppable.

The restaurant trade was expanding rapidly and in every establishment

from the high-class eateries to the lowliest street booths,

every table bore a bottle of soy sauce, and every dish waited to be

seasoned with Leung’s own recipe.

He had never doubted his own peasant belief that men must

continue to work regardless of hardship, but now he saw an entire

city out on the streets in solidarity, from bus conductors to factory

workers, clerks and sailors.

I would guess that the strike taught him two lessons – the power

of the Chinese mob and exactly what could be achieved by sheer

force of will; and that the Chinese, whether they have money in

their pockets or not, love to eat. Throughout the strike the restaurants

and eateries had remained buoyant, creaming a profit from the

marchers. A reassuring thought to anyone in the catering business.

This was the Hong Kong that Leung was getting to know as he

journeyed down river from Guangzhou to investigate, and it was

part and parcel of the glamorous, decadent British colony. For years

wages had remained stagnant as prices rose, and as Leung went

from street to street he caught the mood of the workers. He

witnessed firsthand the great seamen’s strike of 1922, when

Chinese protesters turned against the governor, demanding to be

paid as well as non-Chinese workers.

Unscrupulous landlords rented the rooms by the hour, and

some enterprising sailors sublet their bed when they were at sea,

collecting precious whisky and cigarettes as rent. Every day they

porridge that served as breakfast, lunch and dinner – a neverending

starchy monotony.

Sometimes they were fortunate and found work and a reasonable

place to live, often they found less pay and even poorer living conditions

than they had known in China. Seamen and labourers were

worst affected, living cheek by jowl in buildings no better than flophouses,

perhaps with ten or more strangers sharing a room.